


Deliver Me

by dblmalfunction



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14123358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dblmalfunction/pseuds/dblmalfunction
Summary: A toxic team pushes Darren towards a breakdown, but when a radiant being pulls him back from the brink, will he be delivered from evil?





	Deliver Me

He must have been a mirage, that oasis in the desert who was about to give me a tall drink of water and save me from this desiccation. Or was it a real person I loved and let slip away? Will he return on a hot, sunny day? If so, will I have the strength to keep from just diving right into those gorgeous blue eyes and stay there until my life essence fades away? I am not even certain what is reality anymore. I do know I am living in one of the thirteen levels of hell, though. Dante had it wrong, after all. 

I cannot believe it is happening again. Just when I think I am getting somewhere, the tenuous threads that hold the swatches of my life together to make the most varied, vibrant, and vivacious quilt, are beginning to snap, and I fear the whole thing will unravel. How many times am I going to play Atlas? I choose to fight and was scorned…. Is that not punishment enough? Must I push this boulder uphill, only to see it catch on a root, and as my grip falters, then watch it roll to the base of this mountain again? A mountain of deceit, half-truths, and cryptic clues. When will the pain inflicted by the searing bite of the poisonous serpents let go? 

My brain is vacuous, empty of all productive thought as though a sponge was squeezed dry. No random melodic motifs or lyrical phrases have appeared in weeks. After my press tour largely ended, the vipers in this life blocked out my sun, demanded my dancing monkey routine, then shut me away in a room, slapping me in chains. No longer am I allowed to attend any functions or interviews without my captors, lest I should deign to think for myself. If it has not been previously rehearsed or at least spoken of by my publicist, I have been advised not to answer. As for my creativity, it too is quashed. I can regurgitate what I already knew, but even my brother is worried that I am too broken to create music. Is this what I am reduced to? Like the subject in Metallic’s One. I am devoid of senses or the ability to communicate. I am neither alive nor dead. My existence is reduced to a series of fleeting scenes from my memory, interspersed with pain. Never have the Cough Syrup lyrics rung truer for me. 

My catatonia falters, though, as I am lifted bodily by a dashingly beautiful angel with a halo and glowing skin. I cannot see his wings, but his eyes are so full of pure love, I do not know how he cannot be divine. He is moving his mouth but I do not hear anything except for the rushing of my own blood in my ears. I watch as his mouth moves, even as it is positioned right against my ear, yet nothing that sounds like words. He lifts me into his arms as though I am but feather-light, and golden tears begin to leak from his eyes. Try as I might, I cannot concentrate on what he is saying, giving my lip-reading skills a try and watching his mouth move but unable to make out any of the words. Perhaps I am too mortal to be able to comprehend his transcendental language. However, I know that he loves me, so he must surely be one of the known supreme beings. Or is this another mirage?

As he places me into a warm tub, clothes and all, I feel myself start to snap back into place, little by little. He crawls in right behind me, enveloping me in a warm embrace, placing my back to his front, wrapping me up in his arms, which somehow fit neatly just around my upper chest, and legs folded over my lap. He must be my nirvana. Following the love I perceived, the warmth from his eyes, the bath, his body, I soon begin to feel vibrations, from beneath my back, from the vertex of my head, down through my shoulders, next to my ear, and a rocking besides, as he continues to envelope me into this Zen state. Until now, my face had been dry, but I can tell now it is wet, as if a salt rain stings my cheeks, not to mention my hair and neck, besides. 

A rumbling within my own chest begins to pain my ears, as if a sound geyser were opened and all the troubles in the history of the earth erupt. When has this ever happened? Never have I heard of any natural disasters such as these. It does not stop, despite the seraphim beneath, behind, and around me making the sounds of a thousand ocean waves, tousling my hair back and forth with his shushing breath. He turns me around then in one swift movement, making my back suddenly cold and my front warm, swallowing the sound storm I am screeching. His mouth, warm, strong, assuring, is the last thing I need to suddenly return from my cataplexy. My chest contracts, hiccups erupt, as I yearn for a deep, cleansing breath of oxygen. When did I stop breathing? Why do I feel like a disembodied head just waking from a 100-year nap. My mind is returning, but I still cannot feel my face, my chest, or anything else. 

At that moment, my mom comes rushing through the door, followed by my dad, then what I assume to be the paramedics, as uniformed, efficient, and expeditious men and woman invade my space, seem to make conversation with the angel-man below me as well as my parents. I do not catch the meaning of most of what they are saying, but I understand immediately they are talking about me. For the first time since I began to descend into whatever that was, I take in my surroundings, noticing the flashing red and blue lights on the bathroom door, which I assume are coming from the slats in the master bedroom blinds just outside the bath, reflecting off the bathroom mirror, and onto the faces around me. More vibrations from the man who has me in his arms, as he again looks upon me with all the love I have ever felt, but something else, too. Concern? Fear? Whatever it is, it is intense, but I somehow know it is my lifeline. 

There is a pinch in my arm as a bag of warm fluid is attached. I feel it running through my veins, snaking up my arm, warming me from the inside. I let it happen, as they position me carefully upon an elevated surface, cover me in warm blankets, Velcro straps, then wheel me away. I try to twist my neck to get what might be the last glimpse I should have of my savior. I am no longer sure he is celestial, but he did save me, of that I am sure. I still do not know, or if I do, cannot remember, who he is or how and why he is so important to me. However, as surely I know I am a man, I know he will deliver me from the evil confines of my seemingly eternal prison.


End file.
